Room For One More?
by onceandfuturecass
Summary: stefan's in new orleans. klaus is too. stuff happens.
1. Chapter 1

Every so often in life you meet someone. Now that someone could be a king, or even a beggar; but that one person, it's said, could hold the power to completely alter the path you're on.

For Klaus Mikaelson, a cynic and non-believer in love, this person came in the form of a much younger person, a much younger vampire, named Stefan Salvatore. He didn't expect to experience anything beyond the initial hatred of the man who'd stolen his sister's affections. But he couldn't fight the younger man's growing influence, couldn't shake him as he slowly but surely got under Klaus' skin, into his bloodstream. He couldn't stop him from becoming entrenched in his mind. He just couldn't shake him.

Not like the moron he was currently in cohorts with. This man was no Stefan Salvatore; he was clingy, obsessive… maybe not so far from Klaus' own traits but at least he had taste about it. This guy? Had nothing. Hell, Klaus had found him moping over a nicked bottle of Scotch in a gents' bathroom one night and (stupidly) taken pity on the man, inviting him for drinks and more. Now, he regretted that decision.

Fifteen years seemed like a lifetime ago. 1920s' Chicago and 1940s' New Orleans were worlds apart, and in the worst possible ways. Chicago, the Windy City, the twenties' haven. There weren't any appropriate words to describe how much he loved that city, that time, those people. New Orleans was dull and lacklustre and he had no Rebekah, no Elijah, and no Kol. He had no Stefan Salvatore.

He'd even prefer the company of his dull older brother Finn over the man he now allowed to trail after him. Finn was frustrating and half the time Klaus wanted to stab him just thinking of him but at least Klaus wasn't the bottom line of some ridiculous joke made; he appeared, now, to be the punch line to a joke made by his sort-of-other-half, one which Klaus wasn't sure he even understood himself. His visible disdain towards the joke made clear to the other male that he wasn't happy.

"Oh, come on, Nik," drawled the drunken voice of the male seated beside Klaus at the back table of one of New Orleans' best bars. Whisky strong on his breath - the result of countless glasses consumed in the space of one hour - Klaus cringed as his words hit the side of his face, hot and unappealing. When the older male, older by four years roughly, leaned closer, the smell grew stronger and Klaus was certain he had no sense of personal space. He grimaced, turning his face away, desperately trying to block the man's advances, but to little avail. "Lighten up."

The toothy grin which accompanied the hand coming down heavy upon Klaus' shoulder turned his grimace into an outright sneer, stomach churning in disgust all the while. Not even the alcohol consumed by the Original could take away from the sour mood displayed, or his reproach for the man daring to call him _Nik_ as if they _meant_ something to each other.

George Masterson was his name. George Masterson - idiot extraordinaire. Son of an all-too-popular lawyer. With his floppy hair, his dull brown eyes, his ridiculous moustache which really? Should be made illegal immediately. His sense of humour which pained Klaus to even think about… The sex. Oh, the sex. Even worse than George's sense of humour. His only redeeming quality was the blood flowing through his veins, making him a walking blood bag for Klaus' disposal whenever he so chose to rid himself of this burden.

Which begged the question: why hadn't he already killed this moron? He'd had plenty of chances. More than plenty. But still he kept him around. To curb the loneliness he felt, crushing him, every single day? Perhaps. But George didn't make him feel less alone. He didn't satiate the Original's burning desire for companionship. Quite the opposite. He made him nostalgic for better times, better places, better people.

Inviting George back to his house, to his bedroom, was merely a way of passing the time. George wasn't any sort of home for him; he wasn't his heart, he didn't have any space in Klaus' heart. He meant nothing to him. Absolutely, utterly… _nothing_.

"Well, forgive me, George," he answered curtly, blue-green hues settling on those brown orbs of the other man, the temptation to snap his neck there, bubbling away just under the surface. He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Forgive me I cannot be arsed to sit here and listen to your god-awful jokes to which, apparently, I am the punch line. Forgive me if I just don't care." Pushing his chair backward, the legs screeched over the wooden floor below and he lifted his chipped glass, downing the small measure of Scotch left. After he'd swallowed the sharp-tasting liquid, he slammed the glass down against the table and regarded George with indifference.

"Don't bother coming after me. I'll see you around."

With that final word, he curled slender fingers around the collar of his coat and snatched it up, draping it over his arm as he made his way towards the door, the smell of alcohol infused with smoke from the cigar enthusiasts and the over-perfumed women becoming too much for him. Passing through a smoke-infested hallway after leaving the main bar, Klaus was soon stumbling out onto the street outside, the crisp night air working to clear his lungs of the smoke which had filled them. A sigh slipped through his stained lips, relief sinking in.

A few people littered the streets, a curly blonde-haired woman, what looked like a married couple, a redhead just down the road. And, when Klaus turned one-eighty, he laid eyes on a young brunet, looking at his hand, stare intense. A slight smile crossed Klaus' mouth and he started to wander away, only making it a few steps before the scent of blood mixed in with everything tickling his senses. His gaze drew back towards the young man staring at his hand and Klaus widened his eyes visibly, jaw becoming slightly slack as he took in the appearance of the man across the street.

Neatly combed back hair, green eyes, incredibly sharp jawline…

Compulsion drove him to cross the road towards the boy, trying frantically to compose himself as his legs carried him over. Stopping a few feet away, he felt his rush of excitement break down upon further inspection. Stefan Salvatore, terrified of the sight of blood. Once a blood-crazed killer, now… far from it.

And he tried to flee at that point but before he could stop himself, a sense of empathy washed over him, almost a guilty feeling, and he spoke Stefan's name. The younger vampire's head snapped up, distracted from the crimson staining his fingertips. Klaus gingerly stepped forward and set his hand on Stefan's forearm. He gave a small squeeze, trying, to his own surprise, to give the boy some comfort, however miniscule. He felt saddened by the state his old friend appeared to be in.

"Stefan, are you okay?" he whispered, hand falling from his arm.

Fearful expression diminishing, Stefan grew visibly confused by Klaus' use of his name. And while he wanted to explain to Stefan everything, in this state he knew he could do no such thing. Someone else calling Stefan's name gave him the chance, upon his attention being diverted, to slip away from the younger Salvatore unnoticed.

And in the second between looking at Lexi, and looking back towards the space occupied not seconds prior, Stefan Salvatore was left bewildered as to the whereabouts of the man he'd just met.


	2. Chapter 2

Fumbling inside the pocket of his waistcoat, the blond snatched at the sharp end of the bronze key to his flat. Pulling it out, he slid the small item into the keyhole, twisted it clockwise and listened to the tell-tale chink signalling the opening of the door. He pressed his palm flat against the chipped blue paint and gave a light shove. The door sprung open and he then stepped over the threshold, removing the key from the lock. Slipping into the hallway, Klaus closed the door but left it unlocked, knowing George would likely come knocking at some point and drunk too, no doubt.

With a pained sigh, he tossed the keys onto the table beside the old telephone. Hanging his coat up, he ventured through the hall and into the living room which was enveloped in darkness, running a hand through his tousled hair, trying to tame it somewhat.

The sense of relief at being alone was outweighed greatly by the longing which filled him from head to toe. Of all the places Klaus could have imagined finding Stefan again, New Orleans was not one of them. Although, saying that, it made sense. What didn't make sense was how he hadn't known the seventy-something year old was even in New Orleans, a thought which soon served to plague his mind.

Same city, same time, same year.

"It's a coincidence, that's all," he grumbled, stopping by the alcohol cabinet. Tapping his index and middle fingers against the side of the glass door, Klaus drifted from reality, becoming deeply engrossed in his thoughts and the warmth enveloping him as he fixated on Stefan, on memories of the twenties. His head rolled slowly to one side and he breathed out in a small puff, cheeks blowing out in the process. His eyelids slipped shut and he allowed himself to venture back in time.

_"__Nik, give him a chance."_

_Rebekah muttered this from the doorway, while Klaus kept his gaze securely on the fireplace, the main source of light in the room. Some extra light came from the small sliver of moonlight seeping in through a crack in the rich red drapes hanging across the tall window. The Original shrugged his shoulders, detached on the most basic of levels. His blue-green hues followed the flames dancing higher and higher in thee fireplace, more interested by the way red melted into orange and yellow and vice versa than his sister's desperate pleas._

_Two weeks. That's how long it'd been since she'd started on this obsession with Stefan Salvatore. Two weeks since he'd been so stupid as to ask her _**_how was your day, darling? _**_One week since he'd met the man in question. The idiot with the funny hair who'd stolen his sister's attentions. And still, after all these attempts she'd made to sway him, he still couldn't care less. He had no intention of giving Stefan Salvatore a chance to prove himself worthy of a bloody Original, much less his precious Rebekah._

_"__No," he answered sharply, turning his head. He met her gaze and held it, his brows cocked. She scowled; he laughed. "I will never give him the time of day. I will never welcome him into our home. Hell, I'd sooner wake Finn."_

_A smash sounded and it took a moment for him to register that he was on his knees, shards of glass falling around his feet. By the table, Rebekah appeared, to say the least, cross. Klaus flinched._

_"__Jesus, Bekah!" he wheezed as he shot a glower in her direction. Brushing the smashed glass from his clothes, he slowly stood. "Are you-"_

_She cut him off. "That's what I think of you waking Finn up," she growled and Klaus observed her draw her gaze from him and settle it on a vase across the room near the door. He followed her line of vision and as she sped towards it, he took off as well, coming out on top. Bashing the vase out of her grip, he forced her against the wall, the fingers of his right hand curled around her throat while his left arm tightened against her chest, keeping her restrained. _

_"__You know why I won't meet this twat."_

_"__Because you're jealous."_

_His grip on her throat tightened and he kept his eyes trained on hers, refusing to be the first to break. "No, I'm not." A smirk creased her lips, created a twinkle in her bright blue orbs. Klaus relented and released her from his choke-hold. "I am not jealous of him, Rebekah."_

_"__Then prove it. One night, Nik. Just one night and if you don't like him, fine. But you should know…" The comment came out in a half a purr as she strolled lazily towards the door. By the door frame, she stopped and turned her head, glancing backwards over her shoulder. "You should know that Stefan really wants to meet you."_

_He faltered but before he even had the chance to respond, his younger sibling was gone and in her wake the door creaked shut. His hand clenched into a firm fist._

_"__Fine," he hissed finally, knowing she'd hear him. Oh, the things he would do for her… "I'll meet him. But don't expect me to like him because that's not going to happen. Not now, nor ever."_

_And all he heard to his answer was a soft, silky chuckle._

"Shit," hissed Klaus as his index finger sliced down the thin gap between the side of the cabinet and the glass door, drawing him out of his trip down memory lane. Blood oozed from the cut and he lifted his finger, swiping it quickly down past the pocket of his waistcoat. Upon second inspection, the scratch had healed, leaving only a small trace of blood behind.

Lips pursed, he shook his head and pulled the cabinet door open, reaching inside and withdrawing a bottle of Scotch. Unscrewing the cap, he dropped it onto the shelf and then claimed a glass, pouring in enough to fill the bottom and little more. He replaced the lid, closed the cabinet and walked away with his drink. Taking a seat on the edge of the arm chair beside the lamp, Klaus let out a breath, giving a light tug at the strands of hair falling over his eyes, cutting across his vision.

He couldn't stomach how miserable Stefan had appeared to him. He despised vampires like that - vampires who denied who they truly were and cowered at the sight of blood. Such creatures did not deserve to live. But try as he might, even the thought of hating Stefan for how weak he'd apparently become hurt Klaus too much to bear. Hating the only true friend he'd had in centuries? Was not a path he wanted to take. He wouldn't do it, simple as that.

Downing the drink in one go, Klaus released a hoarse breath, the alcohol burning his throat as it ran down. For a few minutes, he sat in silence, slowly but surely forcing Stefan to the back, if not out, of his mind. He rotated the clear crystal in his hand, stare blank, unseeing, but fixed on one point on the wall to the left of the window. Finally separating himself from his memories, from his painful thoughts, he shifted from the armchair and allowed his legs to carry him out of the living room, through his flat to his bedroom in all its underrated glory.

Inside, Klaus closed the door and turned to find the once-neat chocolate sheets in disarray. The pillows were squashed and he saw the outline of a label at the top left corner. There was only one culprit and he sighed, trying to contain the anger swelling in his stomach.

"Oh, George."

Stupid pillock.

"One thing being a dull git," he mumbled, sliding his waistcoat off. Dropping it onto his dresser, Klaus approached the bed and began to tidy it up, dragging the quilt back to its rightful place. "Another thing being an indescribable moron that can't even make a bloody bed."

After sorting the quilt, fixing the pillows and finally smoothing out the sheet topping the quilt, Klaus, with a sigh of relief, started to unbutton his shirt. Peeling the thin material away from his skin, he slid it down his arms and finally tossed it onto the wick chair by the door. His shoes and trousers soon followed, but he left the trousers neatly folded over the back of the chair.

"Better," he hummed to himself, pleased with the change. Pulling the sheets down, he slipped into the bed and slid down, neck supported by the plump feather pillows below. The silence throughout the house was both comfortable and deafening; but in the end the peace won out and his eyelids drooped, shielding his eyes as he started to doze off.

—-

"Nik," murmured a voice, breath hot against Klaus' ear. He stirred, rolled onto his side, right arm becoming trapped beneath his weight. A few fingers pushed against his shoulder, rougher with each nudge. Klaus groaned meekly. "Love, wake up."

For the next few minutes, the man behind him continued his assault of Klaus' shoulder, and the hybrid eventually relented. Opening his eyes, he sighed and turned his head, glancing up at George. The drunken grin left much to be desired; the temptation to snap George's neck burned bright. Then he wanted to drain him dry as the older man leaned in and planted a sloppy kiss to Klaus' lips. He didn't return the kiss, leaving George aware that he had to up his game.

He rose to it and slipped his fingers under the quilt. He traced the outline of each of Klaus' abs, flexed his fingertips against his stomach, and finally eased his hand into Klaus' briefs; his palm pressed downward firmly and Klaus let out an involuntary sigh. Pushing himself upwards, he closed his eyes again, nudging his palms flat against George's shoulders, rejecting the advance made. George didn't let up.

"George, no." He curled his hand tightly around George's, stalling it mid-pump. Brown eyes peered up at him, disappointment but a hint of determination evident.

"You normally want this."

His brows arched and Klaus' level of discomfort increased exponentially. Then he thought about his circumstances and how he had no-one else, even if he had brought it upon himself… Even if he didn't want this idiot, he was the only idiot Klaus had. Like that, he gave in and let his hand fall away from that of George, allowing him to continue.

George pulled the cotton covering Klaus' cock down and pressed a light kiss to the head, all the while sliding his right hand up and down Klaus' shaft in slow but steady movements. With each pump, his hand restricted a bit more. Klaus' mind soon slipped to other places and he thought about Stefan. Stefan's smile, Stefan's eyes, Stefan being here with him. Stefan touching him. Stefan kissing him and making love to him and—

"_Stefan._"

He groaned, finding himself becoming increasingly hard under the firm grip of the male caressing him. He only became aware of his slip of the tongue when he heard an accusatory snap from the end of the bed.

"Who is Stefan?"

George's tone drifted from confusion to hatred to hurt and back to confusion. Klaus barely registered the voice, too caught up in the moment of heat following Stefan's name rolling from his tongue. Slowly pulling himself back to reality, he opened his eyes and cast his gaze down his body, a scowl forming, denting his features.

"Get off me, he snarled, using the full extent of his strength to shove the human away. He pushed so hard that George was tossed like a doll across the room and Klaus heard a quiet yelp as the faint scent of blood wafted into his system. Clambering up, he pulled his briefs back up and sped over to George, watching in amusement as the human gasped and staggered away. He put on a brave front after that, much to Klaus' disapproval.

"Have you cheated on me?"

He scoffed. "What is there to cheat on, George? You mean nothing to me. You never have. You disgust me."

"No. You don't mean that," said the brunet, shaking his head fervently as he held Klaus' gaze, his jaw tight. Klaus just laughed, his laughter coming out in short bursts, each one sounding more cruel, more cold than the last. He approached George, backed him up against the wall by the door.

"How could you possibly think that? What on earth possesses you to think I like you in the slightest? Let alone enough to love you? The thought I let you come here night after night, let you touch me, let you kiss me? It makes my skin crawl. _You_ make my skin crawl."

His fingers drew apart and he pressed the tips to George's chest, applying a small amount of pressure. At George's wince, Klaus sliced his fingers through his chest, top lip curling upwards, making his distaste all the more evident combined with the furrowing of his brows and the semblance of hatred in his otherwise emotionless blue eyes. George adopted an expression strongly comprised of fear and confusion and a lacing of pain as Klaus broke through his rib cage and took his heart in his hand, an organ which with every passing second thudded continually harder and faster.

In a final attempt at pulling an answer from Klaus, George gripped onto his wrist and stared into his eyes, refusing to break eye contact.

"Who is Stefan?"

"Ten times the man you will ever be."

Klaus tightened his hand around George's heart at his words and pulled, yanking the small bloodied organ until it broke free of the man's chest. George crumpled soon after and Klaus dropped the heart to the floor, glancing down at his fingers which were slick with blood. His tongue darted out and he tasted the thick crimson liquid but on finding it unappealing, he bent down and cleaned his hand on George's shirt. He had only one objective in mind.

He had to find Stefan.


End file.
